


i'll turn you on sonny to something strong

by Exulansis



Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters (Movies 1984-1989)
Genre: F/F, One-Shot, Time Travel - sort of, entirely gratuitous exploitation of doppelgangers, honestly most of the other characters are in the first act and then they kind of disappear, not sure it makes sense but is kate mckinnon magnetic and perfect OR WHAT, pretty tame teacher/student kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7598620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exulansis/pseuds/Exulansis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s humming Blinded By the Light to herself when it happens, and it’s kind of ironic, really, because she’s tightening a bolt and just rolling into the chorus (<em>revved up like a deuce</em> has always made her snicker like a schoolboy) when the lights flicker and then pop, and at first she thinks the lights went out altogether, but no, what’s currently obliterating her vision is just the aftershock of the 100 watt bulb that she crammed into a 60 watt socket a few weeks ago that has only just now decided to leave this plane of existence.</p><p>...but then she leaves it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll turn you on sonny to something strong

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw Ghostbusters last night.
> 
> I've had a longtime thing for Sigourney Weaver and I have a new, intense thing for Kate McKinnon, and how could I pass this chance up??
> 
> I still think Sigourney Weaver deserves more love in general, but especially as Dana in the original Ghostbusters, who never seemed into Venkman at all and deserved better (even though Venkman is okay, I guess). That being said, I could not have asked for more than her cameo (okay, I guess I could have asked for it to be longer but those 30 seconds whetted my appetite and quirky scientist!Sigourney is just everything to me and how gorgeous is she, still!!).
> 
> This is shameless and was written too quickly and posted too impulsively, but here it is anyway in all of its run-on sentence glory (I like to think it's a little like what the inside of Holtzmann's head is like).
> 
> If you're usually here for Labyrinth angst and you're wondering what the hell I'm doing, never fear, I'm working on some things there, too.

* * *

_mama always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun  
but mama - that's where the fun is_

* * *

She's humming Blinded By the Light to herself when it happens, and it's kind of ironic, really, because she's tightening a bolt and just rolling into the chorus ( _revved up like a deuce_ has always made her snicker like a schoolboy) when the lights flicker and then pop, and at first she thinks the lights went out altogether, but no, what's currently obliterating her vision is just the aftershock of the 100 watt bulb that she crammed into a 60 watt socket a few weeks ago that has only just now decided to leave this plane of existence.

But then she leaves it too, and at first she thinks it's just the disorientation from the bulb that burnt out over her head that made her lose her balance and slip from where she was perched precariously on the stool, but then it feels a little like sliding sideways and also a little like a cold shower and the static shock that the doorknob delivers after shuffling across the carpeted floor in socks

(and how fascinating that was to her when she was little, that sometimes, if she was very careful to watch, she could see the blue-white spark connecting her skin to the metal before her fingers touched it, and all this to say that at first she thought she'd finally made that mortal mistake - _oh, Damocles_ \- but then she realizes that while the sensation is decidedly unpleasant, it's also hardly the worst thing she's ever experienced, and not even as bad as the time she'd skinned half her fingers in an exhaust fan and doesn't even touch the first time she'd burned herself on an unstably contained proton pack)

And when she looked up from where she'd been unceremoniously deposited on the floor, she's looking at the sharpest jawline she's ever seen - god, that thing could cut glass, and the cheekbones aren't far behind - and a perm that she's pretty sure hasn't been seen in polite society for at least three decades, and a pair of dusky lips that are turned down at the corners.

Well, maybe that thing about the perm hadn't been quite fair, the whole vibe in here is very retro, very nostalgic - the kind of thing her parents go nuts for - and besides, the creature in front of her is brandishing a bow and a cello, and as for the polite society dig, well, she's wearing paint-spattered overalls and a pair of yellow-tinted goggles perched on her own forehead, so, _glass houses_.

"Don't stop practicing just 'cause I dropped in," she says, with the smile and slow wink that she knows makes a certain type of girl (okay, most girls, so it doesn't necessarily mean anything) flush red and she's justified in thinking it because color creeps across those cheekbones.

She seems to be taking the sudden appearance of one Jillian Holtzmann in her living room remarkably well. "At least you're not a huge dog this time," she says, with the corner of her mouth quirked upward in a sarcastic kind of way that just begs to be set right with -

Well.

Maybe she'll take that cold shower, after all.

"Holtzmann," she says, extending a grimy hand, which she notices and then wipes on her overalls. Futile. Her hand reemerges, dirtier despite her best effort. "Holtz for short."

"Dana," says the woman with the cello, making no move to rise from her chair. "Dana Barrett."

An alarm chirps from somewhere deep in the Bakelite kitchen, and Dana turns her head, craning her neck to look. Holtz's eyes trail down her throat, but snap back up and snag on her eyes, then her mouth. Something about Dana is terribly familiar in a particular way that sets her spine to tingling.

"'Scuse me for asking," says Holtz, "but what year is it?"

"1984," says Dana, without missing a beat.

Holtz cracks a grin so loud she might as well have popped bubble gum. "Like the novel?"

"It's not like that at all, actually," Dana says, and looks back at Holtz, who feels as if she's been pinned to the spot by that unyielding look, and it's not often she finds herself lost for words.

Dana looks a little like Erin, actually, if Erin was from the 80s and had huge dark eyes. Holtz almost can't believe her luck, that she'd have fallen nearly into the lap of a doe-eyed musician in her first jaunt through time. But maybe it's the Erin thing that has her spidey senses tingling.

"So," says Dana, finally setting the cello aside, leaning it oh-so-carefully against the couch, and when she rises, folding her arms across her chest, Holtzmann feels like her eyes are bugging out because she's _so tall_ , her legs go on for _days_. "What year do you think you're from, then?"

"2016," says Holtz. "Wanna have a beer with your very first time-traveler?"

Dana sighs in a way that sounds like resignation, but Holtz has been watching pretty straight-until-proven-otherwise girls all her life and there's no way she could have missed that surreptitious glance over that slender shoulder on the way to the kitchen.

"I guess we might as well," says Dana, swinging the door of the refrigerator open and grabbing a couple of cans from inside. She hands one to Holtz, who pops the tab like a seasoned professional and takes a swig. Dana's just watching her, hip propped against the counter, but Holtz doesn't mind being watched.

"Vintage," she says, when she's slowed down enough to actually pull the can from her face and examine it. "Sweet."

"I guess anything _would_ be vintage if you're from the future."

"Right, right, time machine, almost forgot," Holtz murmurs, and then she's lost in thought because she'd just been tweaking proton accelerators, because there's nothing like a good offense to make a good defense in order to have the best offense (she's always been shit at sports metaphors, but who needs sports when you make guns), when she'd snapped sideways and now here she is.

There's a cautious but persistent knock at the door.

Dana puts her beer down without opening it, sighs like something out of a soap opera, and goes to open the door.

"Dana?" A small man with thick-framed glasses stumbles into the apartment. "See, I heard you practicing the Dvorak - sounded lovely, by the way, just lovely, I really think you're getting it - and then I heard voices and you weren't practicing anymore and I wanted to make sure everything was okay, because I know you practice from three to four pm on Saturdays and it's odd for you to deviate from your routine, but I thought as long as you had - deviated, I mean - maybe you'd like to come over. I've got a cheese plate."

Holtz shifts all of her weight onto her right leg and stares at him, and when he finally notices her, he stares right back and seems to have lost his train of thought.

"Louis," Dana says, finally, "that's very sweet, but I've got company."

"Just fixing the sink!" says Holtz with a jaunty little point, because if there's one thing she's thought about nearly as much as particle physics and endless circuits and energy sinks, it's how she would fit in if she managed to time travel, and she can't do much about her hair which is thankfully messy enough that maybe he can't tell how anachronistic the style probably is

(but she can't wait to get back and brag about how practical her overalls and goggles were thirty years ago, so that's score one for Holtzmann)

And Dana, bless her unspeakably lovely soul - and jawline - says, "I can't leave while she's fixing the sink, Louis."

"Of course not," he says, "but Dana, _I_ could fix your sink. I mean, I know you've already got someone here to do it, but just so you know, I'm very good at fixing things. I could have fixed your sink, I'm pretty sure. I could have done it. I wouldn't charge you anything for it because what are neighbors for, so next time, just let me know. Should I bring the cheese plate over?"

Holtz has flung herself halfway under the sink, and yanks a convenient wrench from her belt, and is tapping harmlessly away at the pipes beneath Dana's sink to maintain the illusion of productivity and professionalism (and of course if the sink _had_ been broken, it would have been child's play to fix, but there's not even a speck of rust on the pipes down here in the white cabinets), next to the glass cleaner and the dish soap and what looks like a year's supply of extra sponges.

The door creaks open. "Am I late, or is this a surprise party? It's not my birthday, you know, but it was still very thoughtful of you to throw me a party."

"Peter," sighs Dana, and Holtz wishes she could see the looks on everyone's faces.

"Heard you were having some ghastly - or should I say _ghostly_ \- issues," says Peter, conspiratorially - Holtz can _hear_ the wink - and just then the tv leaps to life and it plays a _very_ familiar jingle and Holtz sits up so quickly she whacks her head on first the pipes and then the cabinet doors, and while stars are dancing before her eyes

_blinded by the light_

"Okay," she says, hand clasped to her forehead, "just what the hell is going on here?"

Three pairs of eyes land on her before she gives up the ghost ( _hah_ ) and sinks to the ground.

"This your ghost?" asks Peter, lifting her up and dropping her onto the couch, jostling the cello which Holtz grabs, dirty fingers curling gently 'round the fingerboard before it can topple to the floor.

"Louis, why don't you come by later," Dana says, shooing him toward the door despite his protests, and when she's got the door shut behind him, she takes the cello from Holtz, slipping it from her fingers, and slides it securely into a case. "No, Peter, she's not a ghost."

"Time-traveler," says Holtz, her left hand still holding her head, "and where I come from, there's only one team of ghostbusters, and I'm on it. R&D, tech dev, big guns." She manages a grin and flexes her right bicep. "We're kind of a novelty."

Dana's eyes roll so hard that Holtz is genuinely surprised when they don't fall out of her head to bounce on the floor. Plus her feelings are kind of hurt. That eyeroll was savage.

"So," says Peter, "another dimension, huh? Parallel universe? Neat."

But Holtz sees the way he's been looking at Dana, and she's starting to put some of the pieces together, and she feels that familiar sinking sensation that usually heralds complete and utter disappointment. She's been around long enough to know what longing looks like

(better on her face, of course, but _Peter_ can't help that she's cornered the market on unrequited lust)

"If she's actually one of you," says Dana, slowly, "then maybe she can handle it from here and I'll talk to you later."

"If that's the way you want to play it," says Peter, strolling to the door with brave machismo, but Holtz sees the slump in his shoulders that wasn't there before.

Then, abruptly, everything is quiet. Dana walks away, leaving Jillian Holtzmann to wonder what's happening until she comes back with ice cubes wrapped in a dish towel. "Hell of a goose egg," she says, and her wrist brushes Holtz's temple, sending a warm little frisson of electricity down her arms as Dana brings the ice down squarely where Holtz is sure half of her blood is pounding angrily in her forehead

(oh she knows where the other half of her blood is pounding but that particular piece of trivia isn't meant for polite society - _so thank god for that perm_ )

"So, did you fix my sink?" asks Dana, with that crooked little smile that would make Holtz's knees weak if she were actually still standing.

"My noggin's quite the handyman, as it were, so I think the prognosis is good."

Dana actually laughs, then, and sinks to sit on the couch by Holtz's shoulder. She slides one hand, flat-palmed, beneath the tangle of blonde hair and goggles straps, and lifts at the base of her head. Holtz wouldn't have resisted even if she'd been able to, but the room is still kind of spinning and the steadiness of Dana's cool hand might be helping. It definitely isn't hurting, anyway.

"Hope this isn't too forward," she says, "but the last time my head was in a lady's lap, ice cubes were involved very differently."

"It's forward," says Dana, and Holtz kicks herself until she's black and blue, there, inside her head. "My guess is you're not so run-of-the-mill even thirty years from now."

"I won't tell if you won't," says Holtz, managing to wink and curl her fingers around Dana's pale wrist.

The sudden flash of disapproval on Dana's face - the pursing of her lips, the tightening of her jaw, even the motion along the column of her throat as she swallows - is what finally grants Holtz the realization - _like a thunderbolt_ \- just who it is that Dana reminds her of ( _it's not Erin at all_ ) and now that she's opened that particular door there is no shutting it.

(Hot for teacher? Totally normal. Everyone's hot for teacher some once-upon-a-time.)

She watches color bloom slowly across Dana's face, sees the moment when the tension in her lips gives way, slackening and loosening. Dana takes the cold compress from Holtz's head and runs the damp material over her fingers, wiping away the grime, and Holtz holds very, very still, because she abruptly feels as if any sudden move will chase her away, that Dana will stop watching her.

"Holtzmann," Dana says, "you can get rid of ghosts?"

"I'm the best in the game. And I'm better looking than your buddy Peter, too."

"He means well," she says, absently, running the cloth along the edges of Holtz's fingerless gloves. "It's just - he can be a bit much to take."

"You got a ghost here?"

"I'm not sure," she says, and Holtz realizes that she's no stranger to the paranormal, which is probably why she's treating the arrival of someone from the future like an everyday occurrence. Nothing new to see here, boys, same old same old, only this one walks on two legs and doesn't smell (too) bad. "Peter seems to think it's residual."

"You and him go way back?" Holtz asks, tentatively touching the knot on her head. Yep, it's bigger than she expected, but she's had worse and usually has had to patch herself up afterward, so all things considered, she's coming out ahead.

"Not _way_ back," says Dana, with one of those thousand yard stares. "He's a funny man, but I mistook gratitude for love, and life debts don't make for healthy relationships."

"The ol' never get involved with someone who saved your life, I hear ya," says Holtz. "Well. Let's hope this ghoulie isn't Class Four so we can keep hope alive."

Dana blushes.

It's short work to dispatch of the ghost. He's actually a little poltergeist, feeding off of the breadcrumb trail that Zuul set for Gozer

(and god, she can't forget to tell Patty before Gozer shows up in their little corner of space-time, not after what happened and then didn't happen to the city just a month ago)

and Holtz just lures him into a makeshift Faraday cage, zaps him real quick with an augmented proton taser and folds him right up, there, in the middle of the kitchen. Dana watches, and when Holtz finishes and pops the little canister into her pocket, Dana smiles.

"My apartment's intact," she says.

Holtz grins. "It doesn't happen every time, so maybe don't get used to it if this kinda stuff follows you around a lot."

They stand there for a few beats. Holtz shifts her weight from leg to leg, stretches her arms out behind her head.

Dana breaks the silence.

"Do you have to go?"

She's not sure if she hears reluctance there or not, but Dana has mastered the art of looking vaguely curious, and suddenly Holtz realizes she has no idea how to get back, and it must show on her face, because now Dana looks amused.

"You can take the couch," she says, disappearing down the hall and reappearing with a folded set of lavender sheets in her arms. "I suspect Dr. Spengler might be able to help you. You can go to their office tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

Here in bizarro New York, she finds the Ghostbusting team consists of Peter (Venkman), Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler and Winston Zeddemore, but she doesn't meet Winston on Sunday, because he has the sense to stay home with his family. And they work in a firehouse, which is _weird, right_ , but also kind of makes perfect sense because here in bizarro New York of 30 years ago, there are Ghostbusters and they're all men, but they're lovable enough so she guesses she can dig it.

Peter, to his credit, is hardly perturbed by her presence, and Ray is pleased to meet her, but while her appearance in their office is a curiosity, she's not a ghost, she's not spraying ectoplasm, and she's not threatening to destroy the city (at least not yet), so the two of them are less interested.

Egon, on the other hand, is fascinated. He asks lots of questions, and she answers too many until she realizes she's playing with the timeline like it's Silly Putty and maybe that will have difficult implications on their futures - hell, she doesn't know, she saw the Butterfly Effect and thought it was total hokum, but that was before she started flying through time by the seat of her overalls - so she pauses halfway through a frenzied, enthusiastic explanation of quarks and Higgs bosons and depolarization and the Tau neutrino and her own personal pet project

(the movement of protons is inverse to the movement of electrons, and while it's not technically correct, in so many applications, the subatomic particles are two sides of the same coin, so maybe everything is backwards, maybe the world is meant to be seen in negative rather than in positive, the black of her teeth and the white of her pupils and the greyscale in-between…

well, okay, that and also a backpack synchrotron unit, which would be possible if she could just siphon off the energy efficiently instead of strapping what's effectively a nuke onto someone's back - a storage ring with an accelerator baffle, and just maybe the miniaturization would be amenable to harnessing the relativistic mass of the protons, and with a radiation shield…)

Egon looks up at her from where he has been scribbling notes furiously in a little notebook and pushes his glasses up on his nose expectantly.

"I don't wanna get my fingers all up in your timeline," she says, lamely.

(and it's not _strictly_ true but she doesn't think _those_ repercussions would be too much for the universe to handle, really)

"Don't you want to get back to yours?" he asks.

"Sure," she says, lifting a shoulder in a shrug and dropping it back down. She misses Abby, and she misses Erin and Patty. She misses the friends she had on the other side even if she likes the people here, too.

"Then we're going to have to pool our resources."

Janine doesn't trust her much, not at first. But Holtz is always watching, and she sees what Janine is afraid of, and she reassures her.

"I don't play for your team," she whispers, once, in the receptionist's ear, and Janine jumps, startled behind horn-rimmed glasses. "Well, I mean, I guess I do, if your team is - you know what, never mind. I'm shit at sports metaphors. Egon's cool, but he's not my type."

Dana lets her continue to sleep on the couch, and starts to lay out clothes for her. At first Dana's sheepish about it, and tries to find things that Holtz might actually wear. A wide-necked sweatshirt that drips down her arms and over her wrists. A pair of leggings? Finally Dana just starts washing the overalls every time she does a load of laundry.

Sometimes, Holtz finds herself feeling paper-thin and exhausted, like the world is tugging weirdly at her edges, and she doesn't want to think too hard about what that might mean, but she's pretty sure there are consequences for dimension-hopping and they're gonna be more than just missing dinner on her home planet. She stares at her hands, trying to make sure that her edges are still there and sharply defined, and when her vision wavers, she drops them and pretends she'd never started looking in the first place.

Holtz spends some time perusing the books on Dana's bookshelf

(these, she might remember from her childhood, like a dream, some fantasy, some light science fiction, but mostly they are books that she has never considered before and barely considers now - what she wouldn't give to dip into Egon's retro-science library - and she pulls down a well-worn book on music theory and barely makes it through the first chapter)

and then she goes through her own personal effects, laid out in glorious array on the living room floor, and she picks up a tweaked compass - one of her earliest forays into innovation when she started working with Abby and particle physics met the supernatural (but the thing is, quantum mechanics gets into some really weird shit and so it's not such a leap to go from quarks to ghosts) - and uses it to find her way to the refrigerator, where she cracks another 1984 beer and scrubs down the inside with a proton-charged sponge until the needle of the compass stops quivering and points due north again. It had been surprisingly simple to swap out the magnet inside to make the compass sensitive to EMF (electromagnetic fields are electromagnetic fields, after all).

Holtz doesn't say anything about the scrub down, just monitors the apartment very carefully and is satisfied to find that all traces of supernatural activity quickly cease, and if Dana gives her a funny look the next time she opens the front door and finds herself face to face with her physicist squatter in full regalia, gloves and jacket and yellow goggles cinched tight over her eyes, she doesn't say anything about it, either.

Dana's usually out in the evenings, rehearsing with the orchestra, and she won't let Holtz come - probably suspects the sonic disruptor that Holtz keeps tucked into her boots, and it's probably wise, because who could resist? Come on. A concert hall? A bunch of stuffy musicians?

So Holtz sits and watches the television, adjusting the bunny ears and wondering if the world was really like this in her own timeline, all sorts of technicolor and also somehow grey, all bleeding outside of the lines. Sometimes Dana comes home and watches with her, and they don't talk much, but every so often their legs brush against each other and Dana never pulls away like Holtz's leg is a hot stovetop, so Holtz pushes it, sometimes, just a little.

Once, Dana fell asleep on her shoulder, and Holtz sat there like a deer in headlights, wanting to touch her but afraid to wake her up and break the spell. Once, Holtz pretended to be sleeping and worked her way down the couch cushions until her head was in Dana's lap, and Dana humored her

(the way everyone does, the way they laugh "with" her even though it takes her a minute or two to cotton on and join in, the way they all look at her like she's some kind of exotic creature, the way they treat her like an unknowable mystery, but also not like that at all)

and Dana threaded fingers through her hair and Dana's fingernails brushed along her scalp and Holtz could barely breathe until she really did fall asleep - couldn't believe she'd actually zonked out when she came to, tucked neatly beneath the sheet on the couch - hypnotized by the absent combing of fingertips along her scalp.

Egon bars her from tinkering in his lab while he's out because one time - just one time! - she destabilizes a containment unit and spends the rest of the day tracking down ghosts. She's real quiet about it, though, and when she comes back her hair smells like sulfur and her mouth tastes like metal and the canisters are slung across her back like hunting trophies.

Dana levels her with that knowing look from where she's scrambling eggs on the stove, and Holtz, just to be a dick, reaches out and snags a strip of still-mostly-runny eggs from the pan, pops it into her mouth. Dana raps her knuckles with the spatula.

"Go shower, " says Dana.

Holtz obeys, feeling uncharacteristically meek, but then rallies the troops and emerges from the shower in a towel, blonde hair streaming darkly and damply down her back.

"No PJs," she says, sitting at the table, and Dana can barely look at her, and it makes her feel savage with joy.

(that cutesy thing they say about women, that she doesn't know whether she wants to _be_ her or to be _with_ her, well, that might be true for some but it's never been true for Holtzmann, who hasn't wanted to be anyone but herself in years but to be _with_ someone, well- )

"I'll get you some," Dana starts, sliding a plate of eggs across the table to her.

"Nah," says Holtzmann, "don't bother. I'm good."

Dana sighs. "What's your story, Holtzmann?"

Holtz looks up from her plate, mouth completely full of eggs, and makes a big show of swallowing, her eyes huge. "Once upon a time-"

"Come on," says Dana, laughing. "At least tell me your first name?"

"Jillian," says Holtz, her own name dropping from her lips like there's something dangerous about it and nearly holds her breath waiting for what Dana will do next.

"Jillian," Dana repeats, as if she is testing the name on her tongue, and Holtz is feverishly lightheaded, a little too hot and a little too cold, clutching at the towel and staring at Dana, who returns a quizzical gaze.

"No one calls me that anymore," she says, but it's not strictly true, it's just that-

 

* * *

 

she was twenty, a handful of months into graduate school, halfway in and halfway out, gleefully skipping class and flunking exams she didn't care enough to study for, burying herself in any lab space that would take her when Gorin approached her in the hallway, Theoretical Physicist Ice Queen Gorin actually blocks her path so she's forced to stop, backpack full of contraband science paraphernalia cradled guiltily in her arms

and Gorin called her by her name.

"Jillian Holtzmann," she said, and waited for a reaction that Holtz was determined not to give, until Gorin reached down and took her chin between her fingers and tilted her face up

_and oh, the throbbing, the rush of fluid heat between her legs_

"I want you to work with me," said Gorin, still not letting go of her chin.

"You don't want me," said Holtz, looking anywhere but at Gorin.

"I do," said Gorin, voice pitched low, "and so should everyone else, if they were paying any attention at all."

and so Rebecca Gorin taught her not to care what anyone thought, to embrace every wild whim and to throw caution to the wind, in life and in physics (and for a while the two were indistinguishable anyway), and so Jillian Holtzmann had fallen impossibly in love with a woman several decades older than she was, a scientist so radiant that looking at her was like looking at the sun, and after Holtzmann earned her PhD - with distinction, no less - Gorin wrapped her up in her arms as the celebration died down and whispered that she was proud of her, and Holtzmann had turned her head, placed a lingering kiss that had to taste like champagne at the corner of her mentor's mouth -

well, sometimes things just aren't the same after a natural disaster.

 

* * *

 

Dana's still staring at her over a plate of eggs, and honestly, it's so dumb, but Holtzmann's whole body feels electrified because looking at Dana is like looking at a younger carbon-copy of Rebecca Gorin and Holtzmann is shifting in her chair, pressing her thighs together.

"You remind me of someone, is all, and she's the only person who really calls me that," Holtz says lamely, while Dana peers into her soul.

"Jillian," says Dana. The name is a murmur.

Holtz shifts.

"Jillian," says Dana, smile playing around the corners of her mouth. The name is low and husky and _god_ , she even _sounds_ like her, or maybe the name on her lips is just fulfilling her longest enduring fantasy.

The towel bunches between her legs as she clenches her thighs and she jerks as if she's been shocked at the unexpected friction.

"Who was it, Jillian?" Dana asks, moving around the table, and she's standing behind the chair and Holtz can't breathe.

(she was always the one who was going to do the seducing so how did they get here?)

"Who was it?" Dana's breath is hot on her neck, and Holtz's heart is pounding so hard that the towel is actually quivering in time with her heartbeat, and it's like waiting for that blue-white spark of static electricity just before first contact because Holtz is charged up, anticipating first contact like she's burning and Dana is water.

"My mentor," Holtz says, flushed all over, ashamed and quite literally laid bare.

She can _hear_ the smile, sinuous and rebellious and almost a little bit unkind. "Your mentor?"

Holtz is gripping the towel as tightly as she can in her fist, dips her chin down in a tense little nod.

" _Good_ girl, Jillian," Dana says, and the name is power and promise and heat floods between Holtz's thighs. She reaches around and loosens Holtz's fingers. "Let me help."

Holtz is boneless, euphoric, lets the towel drop and settle around her waist. Dana, still standing behind her, strokes feather-light across her neck and shoulders, and Holtz drops her head forward. Dana presses her lips to the spinal column in Holtz's neck and Holtz nearly laughs at the absurdity of it, of everything, of the eggs growing cold on the table, of the lips tracing warm patterns down her neck, of the simulacrum of her old mentor

(her one great love, Abby used to laugh, but it was never quite as funny to Holtzmann)

"Let me help," coos Dana against her skin, and Holtz shivers like she'll never be warm again as teeth scrape her earlobe. She wants to give Dana what she wants, but Holtz has no idea what Dana wants, here in the middle of the pastel kitchen.

When Holtz finally turns to kiss Dana, she holds her forearms, and then she reaches up and touches that jawline, and it doesn't cut her, doesn't even tear a little, it's baby-soft instead of sharp, and Dana leans in and tentatively strokes along the swell of Holtz's breast, and they haven't even really started but Holtz is already breathing hard, little animalistic sounds torn from her throat up into Dana's mouth when Dana's thumb brushes over her nipple, so Dana does it again and again until Holtz is practically begging for mercy.

But when Dana finds the heat between Holtz's thighs with a pair of long, slender fingers, that's when Holtz hisses and throws her head back, and Dana, who's panting, herself, whispers _good girl, that's my girl, that's my Jillian_ and Holtz comes undone like a fifteen year old boy, groaning as her hips snap and Dana laughs, low and throaty, chanting _good girl, good girl, good girl_ like a long, drawn-out mantra now that she's struck fully upon Holtzmann's weakness.

( _Rebecca_ , she cries, _Rebecca_ , and the woman laughs and doesn't let up, working her over even through the exquisite sensitivity of her climax as she shakes and sobs)

Holtz draws Dana into her own bedroom, pushes her down on the bed and climbs above her, touches along Dana's cheekbones and takes charge, pressing her hips into Dana's hips and mouthing down the column of her throat, and Dana is so different now, so unsure that it makes Holtz ache as she caresses Dana, cool fingers at pulse points, gliding down the inside of her arm, the outside of her breast, and Dana, for her part, desperately tries to keep her eyes open, cheeks flushed, watching Holtz's fingers play along her body every bit as confidently as Dana's fingers play along the fingerboard, and if Holtz is trembling, just a very little bit, doesn't it just make it better?

Because here is Rebecca-Dana-Rebecca-Dana and now it's Dana and now it's just Rebecca, writhing beneath her hands, and Holtz runs her hands around Dana's hips and then down around, strokes behind her knees and then gently - gently - gently parts her legs.

Rebecca - _Dana's_ mouth falls open just slightly, and Holtz worries her own bottom lip between her teeth, just for a second, just before grinning up at Dana, just before she touches - there, just there, hot and silky-wet, and she bends further to meet her and now it's just Dana, just Dana fisting her hands in the loose, still wet curls of Holtz's hair, just Dana crying out beneath her, and with the taste of her new lover on her lips, Holtz wonders - not for the first time - what she ever did for the universe to be given this fantasy fulfillment in return, but she doesn't pause to wonder if anything will ever live up to it again (Dana's knee hooks over her shoulder; Holtz's fingers slide deeper) but is present in the moment with everything she has (Dana's back arches, everything tightens, a shuddering cry).

She stops, looks down at Dana who looks up at her, eyes half-lidded, and Holtz thinks, just for a minute, that she could literally die right now and wouldn't feel like there was anything left in life to be accomplished

and Dana smiles and says, "Jillian," and reaches up to cup her breast, and Holtzmann figures she might actually die right now as Dana-Rebecca touches her, ready and willing to play along for as long as Holtz will have her and the fire reignites

(and she was wrong because Dana is _not_ water, Dana is _goddamn diesel fuel_ )

and Dana threads her fingers through her hair and holds her there and her lips and teeth are white hot on her earlobe and Holtz is sobbing and shaking and when Dana gives her what she needs, she surrenders completely, Dana's mouth at her ear ( _good girl, Jillian, my good girl_ ), every word fueling her arousal until she's sure she's going to die and as she comes, clenching her fists in the sheets, all she can see is Dana's smile.

When they've collapsed, slick and sated and all bound up in each other, Holtz turns to Dana, counting the years back in her head. "Hey," she says, "You know the song Blinded By the Light? Was that a thing here?"

Dana grins. "Sure. The tape's somewhere in there." She indicates a drawer, and Holtz gets up after a few moments' contemplation, fishes through it until she finds Manfred Mann, and holds it aloft in victory. She pops it into the player and hits play, and as the synth and hi-hat come in, she begins to shimmy her shoulders as Dana laughs.

Holtz purses her lips and bobs her head, and when the vocals fade in, she's ready, holding Dana's comb like a mic.

When the vocals fade out, Dana, who is gloriously, nakedly propped up in bed, pitches her voice low and says, "Come back to bed, Jillian."

Holtz, blood already pumping too hot, too fast, is powerless to resist.

 

* * *

 

When the phone rings, Holtz knows. She's intertwined with Dana, tangle of sprawling limbs and rumpled sheets, and the phone is ringing and Holtz knows.

Dana rises from the bed to answer. "It's Egon," she says, holding her hand over the receiver.

Holtz gets up, pads across the bedroom en dishabille, and takes the phone from Dana, who walks off across the apartment. "What's cookin', Egon?"

"I've been studying the ley lines we discussed, Holtzmann," says Egon without any preamble. "I think we'll be able to open a portal this afternoon at 30th and 9th, and if we're able to harness the proton stream and reverse the current - a little like your synchrotron, cycling the portal - I think we'll be able to deposit you back in your space-time."

"Oh," says Holtz, emptiness growing where her stomach used to be. Dana hands her a slightly stale bagel with an apologetic little shrug and walks back into the kitchen. "That easy, huh?"

"See, the universe is trending toward chaos - the second law of thermodynamics - but I think that as long as there are a set of parallel universes and you're able to walk through them, you're more like a puzzle piece out of place, and the universe won't flip the table until you're back where you belong."

"You think my space-time wants me back before it can twist in on itself again," she says. "You think I'm like a toothpick in a sandwich that should be open-faced, and no one's gonna eat it until I'm free of yours and back in mine and everything is able to open back up into its composite parts."

"Interesting choice of metaphor," he says. "So, two o'clock?"

"I guess," says Holtz, and when she hangs up, she goes to sit in the kitchen and sees the towel there, lying in disarray half on the chair, half on the floor. Dana is scraping congealed eggs into the trash. Holtz blinks a few times, swallows, picks the towel up and slings it over the back of the chair.

"You're going," says Dana, without looking at her.

"I have to. Universes coming undone and all. It's the least I can do, to save the world."

Holtz doesn't want to leave the universe that is the inside of this apartment, but there's no other choice if the glue for space and time is dissolving, and really, Abby and Patty and Erin probably need her, there's probably something supernatural happening on some grandiose scale back at home, and they need her to outfit them with new proton guns and proton grenades and proton fists and protons, protons, protons

(maybe there's something to electrons, after all, and like repels like and maybe if Jillian Holtzmann is a proton, Dana Barrett is an electron, and they will always be drawn to each other but they will never collide, damn quantum mechanics)

Dana looks up.

Holtz looks away. "It's been fun. Hey, thanks for letting me crash in your pad. Sweet place."

"My pleasure," says Dana, and she's smiling, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes (she knows them so well, better even than the back of her own hand) are the most beautiful thing that Holtz has ever seen.

 

* * *

 

Just before Jillian Holtzmann steps through the portal, worn leather jacket pulled tightly around her shoulders, Dana squeezes her hand.

"In another life, Jillian," she whispers, and Holtzmann shivers.

She doesn't say that she's already met Dana in another life, and it didn't work out then, and that the past two weeks were the best of her life. Maybe they weren't the best of her life, but it seems that way from where she stands right now.

Still, there are friends in New York back home, New York of 2016, and there are people to meet and science to be done and ghosts to be busted.

"I'm not sure it's safe -" begins Egon, but she steps into the swirling vortex anyway.

"Safety's for dudes!" she yells over her shoulder, and she can hear Dana's laughter as she's swept away.

Stepping out into unbearable brightness, she squints, trying to make out shapes or shadows or anything at all familiar.

She imagines arriving back, stepping right back into her life as if nothing had happened. For a moment, she is sure that she will give Rebecca Gorin a call when she's back-in-town, a casual catch-up over coffee or maybe martinis or whatever it is that Gorin is drinking these days to stay sane, and then the next moment, still tumbling through the blinding lights of the void-in-between, she realizes she won't.

Oh, sure, she'll see her mentor again now and then, when Gorin gets curious and shows up to see her workspace, when they're attending the same conferences - the ones she hasn't been banned from, anyway - and when they see each other across a sea of yellow taxis. But Holtzmann has laid the fantasy bare and subsequently to rest, and nothing will ever compare to the explosive pleasure of her name on a whisper, crawling tenderly across her skin.

The firehouse comes into focus, abruptly, as if a filter had just been snapped over the light.

"Hey, Holtzy," says Abby, "Where ya been? Kevin managed to bring sandwiches from the deli, and I couldn't find you, so you get tuna fish."

"Too bad, so sad," crows Patty.

She groans for effect, and her friends smile at her, and Holtzmann is perched on a stool in her lab, and she's tinkering with a Faraday cage, and everything is back to normal.

Almost.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rpq35wyDi7I) the song that got me started, for whatever reason.
> 
> Ghostbusters-style fake science makes me happy.
> 
> Kate McKinnon: call me. I'm serious. (I'll apologize for writing this about your character if you want me to, but I will probably not totally mean it)
> 
> Sigourney Weaver: you can call me too.
> 
> To anyone out there who liked what they read: I'm looking for an excuse from solid to flimsy to totally transparent to retread this over and over again. Help me pair up Holtzmann and either of Sigourney's characters! What do you want to read? Tell me in the comments and I will try my very best to deliver!


End file.
